We say Carve time, as if it was wood or meat. Give me a haunch then, bloody and rare, still squealing: a steaming viand, demanded, mine. I will dip my face in it with reverence. Scrape my cheeks against its shank to mark it. Raise my stained face and roar when the hyenas approach, side-eying my prize. I will gnaw it fine and soft, slow and sure, as if it was all the time in the world.

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